Code of Honor
by Inksplosion
Summary: Morgarath doesn't live by the chivalric code—but then, Halt doesn't either. Morgarath probably should have thought of that before he challenged the ranger to a duel.
1. Chapter 1

**Code of Honor**

 _ **i.**_

Positioned behind his king, Arald had an excellent view of the former baron demanding a parley. Mounted on a white horse, strands of pale hair framing his lean face, black armor faultless, the man made an impressive picture. He looked the legend that had built up around him in the years after his defeat. But just as a scheming Garath of Gorlan had added a prefix to his name he'd also added another adjective to his personal description. Thirty paces from Duncan's position, Morgarath looked cold, and sculpted—and dead. But that didn't stop him from trying one last throw of the dice.

"Duncan!" he called. "I claim the right of trial by single combat."

The king's party kept their voices low, offering advice, and the prevailing thought was refusal. Halt proposed going further and shooting the traitor where he stood. But as little as the knights of Araluen liked Morgarath personally they would not condone breaking parley. They had standards and by their code such an act would be murder. Arald wasn't certain if the ranger understood that or if he just didn't care.

Arald counseled hanging Morgarath instead. He liked things simple and clear-cut. The parley was only a delaying tactic. There was no point in allowing their king to risk his life in single combat when they already held the victory in their hands. It wasn't like Morgarath had anywhere to go now that he'd lost the war.

The tacticians in the party were thinking the proposition through on other lines, twisting an advantage to their side still further.

Morgarath just watched and waited. There was an upward curve to his thin mouth, which should have put them on their guard.

"As you say," said Duncan, his voice carrying easily across the intervening space and drifting back to be heard by those of his army not in his personal entourage. "Let fate decide the issue."

"Then, as is my right before God," said Morgarath, "and before all here present, I do so make my challenge and prove my cause right and just." He paused, licking his lips and tasting the words in a serpentine gesture. Bitter triumph etched itself on his face. "I challenge _Halt!_ "

In the stunned silence that followed, Arald felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. He had no words. The same condition had taken all the other knights surrounding the king. Their plan had allowed for a challenge to Duncan but not any other specific vendetta. Who could have anticipated that Morgarath would hate an insignificant ranger more than the king who had been strong enough to hold the kingdom together and keep it out of Morgarath's clutching hands?

Halt shrugged and put his heels to the sides of his horse. He was ready to accept the challenge but Duncan seized his arm, keeping the ranger with the party by force. "You can't do that!" the king of Araluen protested, speaking equally to his former subject and to his friend.

"Oh, but I can," said Morgarath, reminding them all of the ancient laws by which they'd already agreed to abide. He radiated smug satisfaction. "That miserable sneaker is the proper representation of your kingdom, _milord_. I stand by my challenge."

"And I accept," snarled the ranger, speaking against the orders of his king and sealing the arrangement. He jerked his head at Sir David. "If you would do the honors? An hour or so hence would do well."

"Giving yourself time to run away?" asked Morgarath.

"Why no," said Halt. "It'll take that long to find a suit of armor that fits."

 _ **ii.**_

Halt strode through the camp on the way back to the pavillions, scowling face terrifying enough to clear their path even without the rumors running ahead. Arald trotted at his friend's side, his own feelings plain to see.

The ranger was going to fight Morgarath.

Halt was going to match whatever skill he had in single combat against a man taller and stronger than himself, using weapons that skewed the advantage still further in the former baron's favor. As if it wasn't enough for the ranger to offer himself against the life of his king and good of the country, Morgarath had kept pushing, goading Halt with the news that his apprentice was prisoner. His friends tried to argue that there were knights who wouldn't survive such an encounter; warriors trained and at the peak of their prowess who would be laid out as if they were shadows under the sun. Nothing Duncan or the others had said swayed Halt's determination.

And so Arald had half an hour to impart a modicum of dignity to a man who was going to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb.

Sir David was hunting down a suit of armor that would fit Halt's wiry frame—most knights were big men; they had to be to carry the weight of their armor and swing the heavy broadswords in battle—while Arald would go a pass or two with lances to try and give Halt the basics of jousting technique. They also had to quickly run through the basics of using a sword. Knights trained for _years,_ and despite Halt's battle experience, Arald didn't think it would be enough to give his friend a fighting chance.

Halt took the sword Sir Rodney offered him. The Redmont Battlemaster was closest in size and reach to the slight ranger and they thought his weapon would be the best match. Halt shed his cloak and handed his quiver and bow to Gilan. Grim-faced, Halt slid his feet into a ready stance and worked through a simple pattern of strike and parry with less hesitation than any of the knights had expected.

"The good news is that's not bad..." said Gilan. "We could have been practicing forms while I was an apprentice if we'd known..."

"The bad news is it's not good," said Rodney. "Not good enough to beat Morgarath, anyway."

"Would it be better if you just thought about the sword as a really long knife?" asked Gilan.

"It wouldn't matter. He overreaches me," said Halt, sheathing the weapon. His anger seemed to be driving him forward instead of clouding his thinking. He jerked a lance from a nearby rack, tested the weight and tried another. He ended up with a heavy oaken lance. It was ridiculously long, and Arald cleared his throat to comment on the fact when Halt looked at him. "Lend me that axe of yours?"

A single wicked blow from the war axe that had dangled from Arald's belt and the lance was proportionate to the wielder.

"I want four like this," Halt told Horace. The battleschool apprentice had come running to see if there was anything he could do to help. The boy was white, his emotions showing plainly on his face. He'd picked up on the fact that none of the knights expected the ranger to survive the encounter. Horace nodded and took the lance.

It seemed none of them were ready to say goodbye. After all, Halt would fight back. A black sheep never went meekly to its end.

 _ **iii.**_

"You want to grip the butt of the lance under your right arm and brace it across your body—"

"I know," snarled Halt.

Arald bit back an angry retort—he was only trying to _help_ —but he saw that Halt carried the cut down lance with a fair semblance of familiarity and was probably only frustrated by the fact that time was rushing away from them. After all, the ranger _had_ worked with knights for years. He'd seen their silly habits; knew how they carried their weapons; watched the tournaments. And he could bluff like crazy with that unchanging scowl.

Halt looked ridiculously small on the steeldust pony standing quietly at the far end of the field. He had refused the offer of a proper charger, saying he'd worked with Abelard for years and he thought the ranger pony could handle the weight for a little while. Before mounting, Halt had taken his horse's head between his hands and muttered something in Gallic. Abelard seemed to accept the idea of their new occupation with scarcely a blink.

"Right, then," said Arald. "That looks good. You're doing fine! That'll give Morgarath pause."

"That _is_ sort of the idea."

"I'll go slow this first pass, let you get used to how the lance feels in action—"

The enormous battlehorse beneath Arald snorted eagerly, pulling against the bit. He knew what he was supposed to do, and even he thought he was going to run down the challenger at the far end of the makeshift lists. On the sidelines, Rodney shouted instructions and encouragement. Arald didn't think Halt was listening. Oh, he'd braced the lance properly, but the ranger's pony was just trotting along and Halt didn't seem concerned. Arald let his lance waver—Halt wasn't wearing armor yet and the point of this exercise was to keep him unhurt, not dump the ranger in the dirt before Morgarath did.

In that moment of inattention, something caught the baron under his breastbone and his world turned upside down. He had a confused impression of a spiral of green and blue and the shock of breath leaving his body.

Halt's bearded face appeared in the baron's line of sight and a hand was extended.

Arald took it and found himself raised to a sitting position. He blinked and looked around. They were on a green field in the middle of a war camp... fighting Morgarath... Morgarath... challenge... Halt...

"What... happened?"

"You did a bird impression," said Halt. From somewhere by the ranger's shoulder, Abelard snorted.

Maybe it was just the ringing in his ears, but Arald thought the steeldust pony was laughing at him.

"Very... good," said Arald, still trying to catch his breath. His ribs hurt, the original ache courtesy of the kalkara Morgarath had sent to kill Halt. Maybe it was no wonder after all that the ranger was the one singled out to bear the brunt of the traitor's final ire.

The faintest hint of a smirk appeared on Halt's face. "I have a cousin who is a knight," he admitted. "Try again? You don't have to let me win this time."

 _Had he let Halt win the first time?_

 _ **iv.**_

"I hate this," muttered Halt while Sir Rodney tightened the straps on the borrowed armor. He'd dumped Arald twice more, which was only slightly encouraging considering the five times he hadn't. Rangers were supposed to practice until they never got it wrong—and they didn't have time for that. It wasn't like beating Arald meant that Halt would beat Morgarath. And there was still the duel with swords. There were rules of combat. You couldn't cheat against a man with a longer reach than you.

Halt might unhorse Morgarath, but that would only make the former baron madder than he was already and prolong the inevitable.

The ranger looked unexpectedly regal in full armor. He wore it like he was born to the privilege instead of being thrust inside in a last ditch attempt to save his life. Halt clenched a fist, testing the mobility inside the articulated gauntlets. A ranger's greatest strengths were his speed and agility, and the ability to make split second decisions.

He'd insisted on keeping his knives, sliding the distinctive double scabbard onto the sword belt where it didn't look out of place.

"Want me to knight you?" asked Arald.

Halt scowled. "If I thought it would help, I might, but no. I'm a ranger, not a knight."

Arald nodded. He could respect that. Then he nodded again as the words stuck in his throat. They were all gathered in the pavilion now, spending the last few minutes together. Horace was there. The young apprentice probably didn't know that he looked seconds away from bursting into tears. Gilan and Crowley were there, both rangers looking as grim as Halt himself. Sir David stood behind his son, wishing he had some further words of advice for the man who had worked with them both for so long. Arald and Rodney had done their best for their friend. It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel like they could repay the gifts of friendship they'd been offered over the years.

Halt met each of their eyes in turn, his own gray eyes glittering. "Gentlemen," he said. He cleared his throat. "It's been a pleasure. I... I count it the greatest honor and privilege a man could ever have to number you among my friends."

It was time.

Duncan stopped Halt as he rode toward the spot marked out for the combat. "I'd like to knight you," said the king.

"No, thanks," said the ranger. "I've already sworn all the oaths I intend to honor." He reached out and grasped Duncan's hand, taking it in a firm grip. "My king. By life or death I serve you. A few more words aren't going to change that."

 _ **v.**_

Abelard pranced. The first lance was cradled in the crook of Halt's arm and he looked—dangerous as he rode out to meet his enemy. If Halt's appearance on the field gave Morgarath pause, the cadaverous lordling didn't acknowledge it. In the end, it wouldn't matter that Halt looked like a knight or that he wore the king's insignia on the borrowed surcoat.

Morgarath had no intention of 'going easy' or making his opponent look good. His white charger raised a cloud of dust as he galloped down the field. His lance was set and pointed at Halt's heart.

The ranger pony trotted along, barely picking up speed as he went forward to meet the charge. Under the long forelock, it almost looked like his eyes were closed instead of narrowed to calculating slits. Abelard had taken to this new game. This time, watching from the sidelines, feeling his bruises, Arald saw the turn of the wrist that should have sent Morgarath flying while ranger and pony ducked under the lance that was supposed to do the same to them. Instead, the oak lance splintered and the horses broke away from one another, one of the animals squealing in pain.

Blood flecked the coats of both horses as they returned to opposite ends of the field for a second run. Halt took the replacement lance from Horace, moving it into position as they went with what could only have been long practice.

Arald clenched his hands, fingertips digging into his palms. You didn't do something like that without having perfected the move to being ingrained in the muscle. Halt _had_ to have trained as a knight, once upon a time. Arald would have staked everything he owned and sworn to the truth of the fact. He felt the first flicker of hope. The law of gravity might be on Halt's side and a few others might bend—after all, rangers were reputed to dabble in things better left unspoken.

The second time they clashed, Morgarath went down. The former baron was on his feet before Halt reached him and they traded blows with the blades they wore at their sides. Every clash of steel, Arald winced. The first wicked overhand cut Morgarath delivered had sliced the fragile hope that Halt had a winning plan up his sleeve off at the roots. It was clear Halt was overmatched and overreached, just as all his friends had predicted. And Morgarath was toying with his victim.

Halt went down not two feet from where Arald stood, and it was all the baron could do to abide by the rules of the duel and not leap between Morgarath and the ranger. This shouldn't be how it ended...

Morgarath taunted Halt, laughing at him. "You won't survive this time, _ranger._ Your king can't save you. Your friends can't help you. They're all bound by their notions of honor. And if your little sneaker friends shoot me down where I stand—well, the king can't let that stand and they'll die too."

Morgarath set one armored foot on Halt's chest, keeping the ranger pinned. He'd pulled off Halt's helmet, wanting to be sure he fought the right man. Now glee appeared in his flat eyes.

"I may not get a kingdom, but at least I have this!" The sword blade flashed in the sunlight as it was raised for the killing stroke.

"I lied," said Halt.

Morgarath paused. "What?"

"All those years ago, when you asked if I knew who my father was. You know I did. Wouldn't you like to know now? One last piece of satisfaction?"

"Why not?" purred the former baron, leaning closer to hear the words which were growing weaker. He'd marked the ranger already. He must be bleeding out inside the borrowed armor.

"Ríoghnán O'Carrick," said Halt.

Morgarath frowned. "Rh—"

"And... my mother..." Morgarath leaned closer still. Arald could see wild satisfaction dawning on the pale face as Halt fought to get the words out. "Her name was Isolde de Avila before she was married."

Morgarath stared. Arald could see the names meant something to the former baron—he hoped they would mean something to him when he had to track down Halt's family and give them the news of his death. "You're a petty Hibernean princling? Oh, this is rich! To think... one of those proud lines has come to this... you! You're a poor, pathetic, sneaking, miserable excuse for a man." Morgarath laughed, throwing his head back and exulting in the joke.

He was still laughing when Halt stabbed him with the knife he'd kept hidden in the gauntlet of one hand.

 _ **vi.**_

Arald was one of the few who had heard what Halt had said to lure Morgarath into the deadly embrace. He wasn't sure if he believed the ranger or not. After all, Halt had no qualms about manipulating the situation. He lied and cheated and came out on top. He did what he had to do to survive. He was a black sheep.

But he _had_ been trained as a knight, once upon a time. Arald would have staked everything he owned and sworn that was the truth. Arald just wasn't sure he was ever going to ask if any of the rest was true. The field had gone quiet as Morgarath collapsed atop his opponent and the wargals atop the far ridge grunted in unison—and then began to mill about. The mind which had held them in check was no more.

Metal clattered and armored limbs flopped. Pushing Morgarath's body aside, Halt levered himself up on one arm and looked around. With the sign of life it was as if a binding around Arald snapped and he rushed to the ranger's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, inanely. "Are you hurt?"

Abelard nudged his master's shoulder. _Hey. Get up. We still have work to do._

Halt accepted Arald's assistance in getting to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, and Arald took the other man's full weight for a long second before Halt found his balance. "Think I'll live," said the ranger. He looked across the field to where Duncan had sat on his horse, watching the proceedings. The king and his guard were being drawn into the growing melee swirling around the dueling ground. The ranger's loyalties were very simple. He'd sworn to serve Duncan, and the Ranger Corps. He did whatever it took to fulfill that oath. But more binding still was the bond between teacher and student. Duncan and the rangers were capable of fighting their own battles. Will was only a boy, caught up in something that started before he was born, and a prisoner or dead. "Is Duncan mad?"

"Furious," guessed Arald.

"Maybe he'll cool off when the battle's over," said Halt. He threw an arm across Abelard's back and hauled himself up into the saddle, wincing in pain as he did so.

"Where are you going?" asked Arald.

Halt gathered the reins into his hands, pointing his course through the thickest point of Morgareth's former troops. "To find Will, of course."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I'd originally intended this as a one-shot, but there was overwhelming popular support for more, so... I hope y'all like it.

* * *

 **Code of Honor II**

 _ **i.**_

Horace sat on the edge of the camp, chin in hands. Behind him, Duncan's army was busy with the details of mopping up after winning the war. There were lots of things to do. Horace's job was neither hard or interesting but Baron Arald had put a heavy hand on Horace's shoulder and said this was the direction Halt had gone. The ranger hadn't been seen since before the battle ended the day before and Horace was the only one of them that could easily be spared

The apprentice knight hoped Halt had found Will and that was why he hadn't put in an appearance at the command tent. Horace wasn't exactly clear how it happened that Morgarath was dead and Halt wasn't—at least not yet—but Halt _was_ a ranger and capable of anything. Except fighting like a knight, and by Horace's half-trained standards he'd not done such a bad job of that either.

But he'd watched Morgarath land blow after blow and even allowing for the shielding of armor, no one could have escaped unscathed.

That was why Horace was staring off into the broken country overlooking the marshes—hoping to spot a steeldust pony that would blend into the landscape until the last minute—while the sun slowly moved from the east to the west.

Light glinted off something in the waving grasses, and Horace sat up straight. He saw the flash again, and tracked it several yards forward. He got to his feet and hurried down to find out what he'd seen.

At the edge of the marsh, Abelard plodded up a faint path with his rider slumped over the saddlebow. The ranger pony seemed as dejected as his rider. Without the familiar drape of his mottled cloak, Halt looked small. He'd shed the borrowed armor and the linen gambeson worn underneath was stained with dried blood. A rough bandage had been made from the colorful remains of the surcoat. The suit of armor was roughly lashed together and tied behind the saddle, bouncing and jostling on Abelard's flanks. The quiver of long black arrows was empty. The pair was alone.

Halt raised his head. "Horace?"

"Halt!" said the boy, leaping forward, wanting to help.

"I saw them," said Halt. "On a ship. Will... and the girl. Too... slow." Hampered by the armor and his wounds, he'd not gotten close enough to rescue his apprentice from the Skandian mercenaries. Having unburdened himself of the most important part of what he'd seen, he slumped forward again.

Horace took the reins, urging the pony to pick up the pace and jogging alongside. "I could have fought Morgarath for you," he said. He'd felt useless ever since he'd had to watch Will and Evanlyn carried off on the other side of the burning bridge. Listening to the parlay, he'd wanted nothing more than to ride forward and slap the former baron across his smirk. The idea of such a man challenging the king... or Halt... or anyone Horace knew... burned like gall.

"What makes you think you'd have done any better?" But there was no bite to the words. Halt was too exhausted even for sarcasm.

"Well," said Horace. "I'm taller."

 _ **ii.**_

In the surgeon's tent, the surgeon unwound the bandage on Halt's shoulder and side and peeled off the gambeson, carefully removing trailing threads from the wounds. Fresh blood appeared, bright red against the clotted brown. Her assistants already exhausted, she barked orders at Horace, pressing him into service. "Basin of hot water and a clean sponge."

Halt hissed, a sharp intake of breath, as the full extent of the damage was revealed and the pain changed from a throbbing ache to roaring fire demanding attention with every touch.

The surgeon sighed. "This is going to take awhile."

 _ **iii.**_

"Is he awake?" asked Arald, trying to keep his usually booming voice a low whisper. Late afternoon shadows slanted through the camp and the scent of cookfires mingled with the tang of metal and polish. His tent—and bed—had been commandeered by Horace for Halt to rest after the surgeon finished stitching the ranger back together.

Horace, self-appointed guard at the tent flap, was still pale and queasy from watching the needle go in and out of flesh. He shook his head. "She dosed him with painkillers and he passed out soon after she started."

The baron nodded. "Sleep is best. Did... he...?" He gestured with one hand, helplessly. " _Find_ anything?"

That was one of the things Horace liked about the baron of Redmont. He cared about his wards. He knew their names and where they were placed. Every little success made him proud as a peacock, and Will had given him more reasons for preening than most. But even if Will hadn't been a local hero, Arald would have asked about him. He'd asked about Horace, after all.

"Alive," said Horace. "On a Skandian ship. Evanlyn too."

"Well," said Arald. He sighed. "That's something, at least." Then he frowned. "Evanlyn? That was the girl you met in Celtica?"

Horace nodded. He was glad that Will and Evanlyn were together. It was heart-breakingly lonely to loose everything familiar and be thrust without warning or way of retreat into a new environment. The situation was bad enough as an orphan in the Redmont ward. Being carried off as a slave must be ten times worse. A friend could keep your spirits up. "She's plucky," he said.

Arald didn't quite smile but he slapped Horace on the shoulder with traces of his usual hearty enthusiasm. "That's something."

Horace didn't think his description had made the girl out to be anything special but adults were funny sometimes.

 _ **iv.**_

Rodney stopped by the tent a little later. He carried Halt's gear slung over one shoulder. The battlemaster had also found the ranger's reserve supply of arrows and the quiver bristled with black fletching once more. "Good work," Rodney told his apprentice.

"What are those for?" asked Horace.

"I thought Halt might like having his things close at hand," said Rodney vaguely. "You'll stay with him, of course, for now."

"Sure," said Horace. "I don't mind." Will told stories of how irritated Halt had been to be housebound while his knee mended after the fight with the kalkarra. The ranger preferred to be out and about. Since Will wasn't here to run errands, it made sense for someone to assist Halt and Horace supposed it made sense for that someone to be him.

Rodney unfolded a camp stool and took a seat next to the apprentice knight. He instructed his pupil in the nuances of the war camp, going over in detail things Horace might not have noticed since he'd spent the day watching the fens instead of shadowing the battlemaster. Sir Rodney presented the information in his calm, mellow, voice; unhurried and keeping his tones low so as not to disturb his sleeping friend. He drilled Horace, making sure the boy was paying attention.

"You know where the horses are?"

Horace frowned. The last question didn't _quite_ fit with the rest of the conversation. He knew where Halt's horse was, of course. He'd made sure to tie Abelard next to Tug on the horselines and the two ponies had looked for all the world like they were having a conversation of their own. But why did Sir Rodney care? "Yes, sir," he said.

"Good," said Rodney, and reaffirmed his approval of Horace.

 _ **v.**_

The sun sank low on the western horizon, enormous and pink in a sky of crimson and flame. Alone at the front flap of the tent, Horace heard the first stirring from inside. He jumped up and found Halt's eyes open. The ranger tried to push himself up on one elbow.

"Where's Will?"

Horace wondered if Halt was delirious with fever and if it would be wiser and kinder to lie or if he should repeat the ranger's words on the path back to him. Honesty won out. "On a Skandian wolfship, Halt."

"What is Gilan thinking?" demanded Halt. "He could have caught up to them if he'd left right away and commandeered a Gallican sloop."

"Sir Rodney says Crowley is handing out assignments like they're going out of style." It was one of the many things that had come up in the battlemaster's coverage of the camp. Horace had a moment of confusion as he realized he probably should have given the ranger commandant a courtesy title, but he couldn't think of what it ought to be. "Gilan was sent south after one of Morgarath's lieutenants."

Halt made a frustrated noise. "Where's he sending me?"

"Home. I think."

"Thoughtful."

All afternoon, Horace had been thinking about his friends on the wolfship. People were carried off in Skandian raids and you never saw them again. Surely that wasn't the end. There had to be a way to get some of them back. But Will was just a kid and Evanlyn was just a maid. Nobody would care about their fate except their friends and what could they do? If anyone would know, it would be Halt. But what if they'd missed their one chance now?

The ranger caught Horace's eye and studied the young man's face, reading several things there that Horace didn't want to say. Horace scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt and tried to think of what to do next.

"Are you hungry?" asked Horace. "I can get you something."

"Broth, probably," grumbled the ranger. "It's the surgeon's cure for all ills. Sure. And some coffee."

Horace nodded. It was true. He'd heard the lectures on how patients of all kinds would benefit from the nourishing properties of a good broth and one suffering from gut wounds in particular should avoid solids.

Halt indicated the saddlebag and quiver Horace had carefully set beside the cot. "Who brought those?"

"Sir Rodney thought you might want them," explained the boy.

When Horace returned with the food Halt's gear had been shifted out of sight.

 _ **vi.**_

Night fell. The interior of the tent was lit by a lamp hung from the centerpost. It threw flickering shadows over the group gathered by Halt's bedside. Horace had backed into a corner, watching. The king of Araluen crossed his arms and looked down at the ranger. "What were you thinking?"

Halt matched him glare for glare. "If you must know, when I wasn't thinking what a pleasure it would be to rub Morgarath's face in the dirt I was thinking 'I've really done it this time'."

"You could have avoided the latter if you'd just listened to me," said Duncan.

"And have you out there on the field instead?"

From the group of friends and advisers who had trailed in the king's wake, someone muttered, "If you'd been listening, instead of doing your own thing, you'd have known it would have been Sir David or I out on the field."

"Which bothers you more?" asked Halt. "That Morgarath challenged me or that I won?"

The baron threw up his hands.

"Halt—" said Duncan. "I..." He uncrossed his arms and then recrossed them, restless. He'd not remonstrated with Halt before the duel; the thing had been done and witnessed and they were bound by traditions older than any of them. He hadn't wanted to have his last memory of his friend be of a quarrel. And now Halt wasn't going to listen to reasons why that had been a stupid thing to do. "Why couldn't you at least have let me knight you?"

"Because I'm a ranger," said Halt. He winced, having inadvertently pulled at the stitches while talking. "It wouldn't have helped and it's not like anyone will try that _again—very_ embarrassing for a knight to be beaten at his own game."

There was a bit of guilty shuffling in the corner nearest Horace. The young knight was shocked. Arald and Sir David glared at their companions who had considered trying to make themselves look good by beating Araluen's newest champion.

"Thank you," said Duncan. He'd say it again in an official ceremony; he'd try again later to remind Halt that one _ought_ to listen to one's king; but for now, he was grateful and Halt needed to know that too.

"For what?" grumbled Halt. For all that he'd said he'd fight Morgarath on the king's behalf, he'd been primarily motivated by the thought of Will being held prisoner by the dissenting baron. Secondary motivation was saving his own skin. But that was how heroism worked: sometimes you did things for the right reason and other times reasons were attributed to you and you let them stand because they sounded better than the truth.

 _ **vii.**_

The fires outside had burned down to embers. Outside, Horace could hear singing. The army was still celebrating the victory. Of the group inside the tent earlier, only Crowley remained. Horace was overlooked in the corner and he sat very still and tried to neither move nor fall asleep. "We still have to clear the plateau," said Crowley. "You'll come with me."

"Oh?" said Halt. He didn't sound cooperative. The Mountains of Rain and Night were an unpleasant local, even when one wasn't hampered by injuries.

"At least until people forget that you took down the Dark Lord."

"Or I could go rescue Will, like I promised him."

The commandant shook his head. "Duncan needs us here."

"And what about the girl? Are we just going to pretend she doesn't even exist?" asked Halt.

Crowley's shoulders slumped.

"Tell me someone's been sent with authority to negotiate a ransom. A knight. A courier. It doesn't have to be me." Halt made it sound like he was offering the grandest concession in the world. When his friend didn't respond, Halt's eyes narrowed. " _Why not?_ Owe a courier a favor for once!"

"We're not even sure..." Crowley sounded like he'd had this argument before and didn't really want to have it again.

"We _are_ sure," snapped Halt.

"The king has given me orders," said Crowley. "Direct orders. If she's alive, there'll be a ransom note and then things will fall into place."

Halt's reply was both skeptical and profane.

"You can spend some of that indignation clearing out the remnants of Morgarath's little project," said Crowley, getting to his feet. "We have to wait, even if we don't like it. Goodnight, Halt."

The tent flap fell shut behind the ranger commandant and silence descended inside. Horace frowned over the conversation. _Who_ was going to ransom a couple of kids? Evanlyn was a lady's maid, but why—? Something didn't add up.

"You're still here," said Halt, turning to look in the corner.

"Yes," said Horace, snapping to attention. "Sir Rodney said I was supposed to stay with you."

"Did he now," said the ranger, a speculative note in what was half grumble, half question. "Hand me my boots."

Horace fumbled. He was trained to obey a direct command, but in this case he had two conflicting directives. The surgeon expected Halt to rest. Halt clearly had something else in mind. "Halt? Are you going after Will anyway?"

Halt lifted an eyebrow in challenge. "If I am?"

Sir Rodney's lesson made more sense now. "I know where the sentries are stationed."

 _ **viii.**_

Horace blew out the lamp and went to fetch the horses.

Halt watched the knight's apprentice go. The youth was in the unique position of being aided and abetted by his knight master—possibly his baron as well. The ranger's decision was not so easy. The Corps were independent and answered to their commandant and the king. It was a position of trust on both sides.

Sitting in the dark, quiver leaning against his boot, Halt fingered the silver oakleaf he wore on a chain around his neck. It'd meant something to him when he took the oath of a ranger. Duncan was a good king, not given to irrational decisions. Ranger and king had accorded each other a mutual respect. Now Halt contemplated throwing all that away, albeit for the best of reasons.

Should he leave the oakleaf? Would he have a right to wear it after deliberately ignoring the assignment from Crowley? Rangers had a long leash, but Halt always tugged at the bounds of what was allowed. He'd be ripping free...

Or he could keep it. He was doing this for the king, after all. To leave the bit of jewelry behind would be to say that he no longer trusted Duncan's judgment and no longer wanted to be part of the Ranger Corps. Nothing could be further from the truth. If he had time, he could argue the point until Duncan gave in.

Halt replaced the silver oakleaf under the collar of his tunic. He'd heard the tap of hooves on packed earth in front of the pavilion. It was time to go.

Duncan would forgive him. Eventually.

 _ **ix.**_

"Arald!" barked the king, looking at the circle of trusted advisers gathered around the table inside the command tent. He'd already made the ranger's commandant's face as red as his hair with a few biting remarks on the infamous Corps discipline. Duncan had not been amused by the news that Halt was missing. From his remarks it was clear Duncan saw the ranger's disappearance as a betrayal of his oath of loyalty. First there had been insubordination by accepting Morgarath's challenge—and now flight. "You're being awfully quiet. What do you have to say about this?"

"With all due respect, milord," said the baron. "But who else do you really want going to rescue your daughter?"

Duncan took a step back. He shook his head. "My daughter is..."

"The girl I remember watching follow her father around from the time she could crawl is a capable and intelligent young woman. She has your stubbornness, Duncan, and your grit and courage. Trust her to take the measure of the situation—and survive! She's in the company of one ranger, and the best we've got is on the trail." Arald faced his king and spoke bluntly. "Have a little faith, your majesty."

* * *

 _(02-18-2016) Author's Note: Dragonsfire (and others wondering), I do have notes for a version of Icebound Lands in this continuity but no guesses as to when it'll all come together._


End file.
